


Pan's Gift

by ryme_intrinseca



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ancient Greece, First Time, Gagging on a cock, M/M, Rimming, Sexual Frustration, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/pseuds/ryme_intrinseca
Summary: “I am not a sheep,” Oltos said, amusement curling his voice.Startled—had he really spoken aloud, or could Oltos read his mind?—Timion began to turn around, but the satyr pushed him back down and said, laughing, “I am not a sheep, andIwill be the one doing the fucking.”
Relationships: Satyr/Shepherd
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Pan's Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).



The grass was still wet with dew when Timion lifted the gate on the pen and let out the small flock of sheep and goats. He counted them as they passed, running a hand over their shaggy backs in greeting. The last to leave was the snow-white nanny goat. Her kids had gambolled away to join the rest of the herd, but she lingered, her ears flicking.

“Come on, pet.” Timion crouched in the churned mud to check her over. Yesterday she’d wandered off, climbing a vertiginous path on the other side of the peak in search of fresh green herbs. And there she’d found herself stuck, bleating and bleating until her kids took up her cry, and Timion had gone to her rescue.

It hadn’t been easy. His belly swooped as he remembered choosing his route with care, inching along the cliff face and trying not to look down. His mouth had gone dry with fear and his palms had sweated. He’d snatched at tufts of scrub to keep his balance, and the sharp stems had scored thin red lines across his hands.

Finally he’d reached her, and murmuring soothing words, he’d lifted the goat and settled her over his shoulders, his hands clasped about her legs to keep her from wriggling. She’d nuzzled at his hair, bleated once in his ear, then lay still, placing all her trust in him.

The way back was a blur. The roar of the sea at the base of the cliff, the twittering of a sparrow, the scent of crushed basil. The warm weight across his shoulders and the thudding of his heart, and the click in his throat as he swallowed.

And then they were safe. Though his knees had threatened to give out, he’d forced himself not to drop to the ground but to help the nanny goat onto her feet. She’d made a rumbling noise and shook herself, then looked up at him. Timion had swept careful hands over her, searching for any signs of injury, but had found none.

He couldn’t find anything now, either. Kneeling in the damp squelch of earth, he probed her legs. Perhaps she’d got a sprain he hadn’t noticed yesterday. He crooned to her, and in response she put her head down and butted at his shoulder, playfully, as she did with her kids.

Laughing, Timion released her. He stood, and giving her an affectionate pat, directed the goat out onto the hillside.

It took but a few moments for him to gather his wide-brimmed hat and the stout stick he’d carved from a fallen branch of oak. He lifted his head and gauged the sky with its narrow stripes of cloud, and decided the day would be warm enough to go without his cloak. He ducked back inside the rough shelter that, more often than not, served as his home and retrieved the offering, then he was on his way, whistling.

The flock ambled along with him, partly because the hillside narrowed to a ridge, but also, Timion thought, because they enjoyed his company. There was no real pasture around here, not like on the other side of the island. Though Uncle Sophanes was a man of middling means, he preferred to spend his wealth on buying influence with the Council rather than on the welfare of his animals.

Timion always let the herd search out their favourite places to graze, and as the year progressed he moved them from one part of the mountain to the next. It was a sprawling, untidy sort of mountain that formed a promontory to the north-east of the island. The main peak stood sentinel above the town, and along its flattened summit lay the sanctuaries of Pythian Apollo and Athena the Protector of the City.

From his vantage point, Timion could see a small group of supplicants already wending their way up the path from the town. In an hour they would be at the temple altars with their prayers and their offerings, and none of them would want to see the goat-boy and his uncle’s flock wandering about the precincts. But for now he had the freedom to take the path across the saddle of the peak between the temples, and he enjoyed the sight of the fluted marble columns and the painted pediments.

Braziers burned, narrow twists of pine-scented smoke rising into the clear air. Acolytes swept the temple steps, and a priest of Apollo sat gazing at the sky in search of an augury. As he neared the temple of Athena, Timion ushered the flock onwards. Uncle Sophanes had warned him about the goddess’s priests. Apparently they weren’t above seizing a stray animal and using it as a sacrifice.

It had never happened on his watch, but still; Timion didn’t want any trouble. His uncle had given him the job of shepherd as a kindness after he was orphaned. Except Timion knew that was a pretence, and another type of kindness, too. His mother had died when he was still an infant, but his father had afterwards joined the crew of a merchant’s ship and sailed off, abandoning Timion to his fate.

According to Diokles, the merchant’s son, Timion’s father had married a woman on another island. Diokles told him of the children they’d had, and the fine house they lived in. Timion didn’t begrudge his father a new life and a new family. He preferred Diokles’s stories to the mutterings of Uncle Sophanes, who, when he thought Timion was asleep, would detail to his wife the blundering crimes his useless, drunken brother-in-law, now living in a fishing village on the far side of the island, had committed, and how much it had cost for Sophanes to put it right.

Thoughts of his father always lowered his spirits. Timion pushed them aside and walked on, watching the herd scatter as they approached their most recent grazing spot. He smiled to see some chewing at the short grass and munching on thistles, while others seemed content to wander amongst the marble outcrops. Satisfied that the animals were safe and well, he turned his steps to the sanctuary of Pan.

His heart gladdened as he approached. The shrine was small, focused around a natural declivity in a huge slab of grey stone. Centuries ago, a worshipper had cut a simple pediment and carved inside it the image of the god reclining on a couch and playing the syrinx. At the point of the pediment, the same hands had chiselled a pair of goats flanking a kantharos.

A shelf had been cut beneath, and it was there that, every day, Timion laid his offerings. Sometimes it would be a clay cup filled with goat’s milk or fresh spring water; on other occasions he’d pick a posy of wildflowers or a handful of berries. Today, though, he offered the honeycake he’d saved from last night’s meal.

Timion took off his hat and bowed before the altar, whispering his usual prayer for Pan’s blessing on the flock. He remained there, hands pressed against the cool surface of the rock, when he felt something nudge his thigh.

He straightened and looked down at the white nanny goat. “What is it, girl?”

She gazed at him before letting out a bleat. The sound seemed to echo, and then it was answered by a swoop of music. Notes fell like rain, a piping melody that shimmered through the air. It was sweet, but with an edge of swift darkness, a tune that crawled inside the mind and repeated.

Wary, Timion looked towards the image of Pan. That was a syrinx he heard, and yet he was alone on this part of the mountain… wasn’t he?

The nanny goat suddenly threw up her head and scrambled away.

Heart thudding, apprehension balling in his stomach, he turned to see a satyr seated on a thrust of veined marble.

Timion’s mouth dropped open and he fell to his knees, squashing his hat.

Should he avert his eyes? He tried to think. Diokles bragged that he’d caught a nymph once, and fucked her for a full day. But this wasn’t a nymph, this was a satyr. A very different prospect, and one fully capable of ravishing any human he encountered.

The thought aroused Timion, his cock lifting eagerly beneath his thin tunic. Desire coiled in his belly, an ache of want in his balls and his hole as he stared at the satyr.

It looked nothing like the creatures painted on the red-figured pots his cousin had found whilst looting old graves. Those satyrs were built like men, but with horse’s tails and ears, leering faces and balding heads. This one had a torso like that of an Olympic athlete, lean and honed with defined musculature; his lower half was that of a goat, powerful flanks and strong legs ending in cloven hooves. His flesh was the gold of wild honey. The longer, silkier hair of his goat-parts was the colour of iron left to rust, while the coarser hide, tight-curled, was as dark as the plumage of a black kite.

Timion lifted his wondering gaze to the satyr’s face. The creature was handsome in a way he hadn’t expected. Not bestial, although there was an arrogant tilt to the satyr’s head and a knowing curl to his lips. His eyes were yellow and slitted black, like a goat’s, and his brows were thick. A pair of goat’s ears, soft and purse-like, peeped between the wavy curls of his dark hair, and from his forehead grew a pair of horns that arched back and around.

He stood, leaving behind on the marble the reed pipes he’d been playing, and picked his way over the uneven ground towards Timion. His tail, tufted and erect like a goat’s tail, frisked as he walked. Timion continued to stare, greedily amazed, his mouth watering as he fixed his gaze on the rampant cock jutting from the satyr’s thighs.

That at least the vase painters had got right. Timion had never seen a dick so large. The lads in the gymnasium ligatured their cocks to avoid any unsightly erections while they wrestled together naked. A well-endowed man was considered animalistic, ruled only by his penis, and yet Timion had heard Diokles and his friends talking about the pleasure a big, thick cock could bring.

Surely not even the owner of the biggest member in town could compare to the size and girth of the satyr’s cock. Timion had only limited experience of the erotic arts, but he longed to get his hands on it and his mouth around it. Oh, how he would worship it, if only he had the chance.

It seemed the satyr appreciated his awestruck silence, or perhaps he liked the way Timion was kneeling, legs apart and his dick poking up, the hem of his tunic high over his thighs.

“Mortal,” the satyr said, his voice rough as bark and as caressing as duckdown, “the great god Pan is pleased with you. He bids you thanks for saving the white nanny goat, his favourite, and wishes you to know that he has noticed the gifts you leave him.”

Timion cast a glance towards the shrine, seeking out the image of Pan, then looked back at the satyr. His hooves clip-clopped over bare stone, then trod silently across soft earth and pine-needles. The satyr’s cock was engorged and slick, bobbing with each step; his pendulous balls swung between thick, powerful goat-thighs.

“In his generosity, the great god Pan wishes to give you a gift,” the satyr continued. “A gift of—”

“What’s your name?”

The satyr’s expression went from lofty to puzzled. Timion could have bitten off his tongue at his daring, but he had to know. This creature was the most incredible thing he’d ever beheld, and he wanted to cherish the satyr’s name in his memory for all time.

The satyr tipped his head, whisked his tail. “My name,” he said in tones less declamatory and far more intimate, “is Oltos.”

“I am Timion. I keep my uncle’s sheep and goats.”

“So I had observed.” The satyr prowled closer. Timion could smell him now, a heady, animal scent of musk and thyme. Yellow eyes studied him. “You are quite fetching.”

Speechless, Timion bowed his head, face burning, his thoughts in a whirl.

“Yes.” A hand on his head, fingers carding through his hair, tugging until he looked up again. “More than fetching. You are really rather pretty.”

Timion held his breath as Oltos caressed him, unable to believe this was happening. To _him_ —the boy with the too-wide mouth and the ears that stuck out, with the features that had always seemed too large for his face. And though he knew from glancing at his reflection in the mountain pools that he’d grown into his looks, his peers still treated him as if he was the same gangly, awkward boy they’d alternately shunned or bullied when they were children.

The satyr’s touch obliterated all of that.

Oltos’s thumb skimmed Timion’s lips. His yellow eyes turned deep gold as Timion obediently opened his mouth and sucked the digit inside. The satyr grunted and slid the thumb in to the knuckle. Holding his gaze, Timion drew the thumb deeper and worked his lips around it. He raked it with his teeth, circled the tip with his tongue, and suckled until a strange headiness washed through him.

The smell of arousal was overpowering. Oltos’s cock twitched hungrily. Timion kneaded at his own erection, desperate for relief.

The satyr pulled his thumb free. His breathing was rough and rapid. “Your gift,” he said.

Timion groaned and shuffled forward on his knees, reaching out to embrace Oltos’s legs. He buried his face between those goaty thighs, seeking out the animal smell of lust. Coarse hair tickled his face. Wetness dribbled over his cheek. He was drowning in need, frantic for an anchor, and then he got his mouth around Oltos’s cock.

Moaning, he grasped at the satyr’s legs and tried to cram in as much cock as he could. Gods, he was ravenous for this. His mouth stretched wide as he took more and more, until the blunt head nudged the back of his throat. Timion squealed around the gag of the satyr’s dick. Saliva slicked his lips, drooled down his chin. He breathed through his nose, the heat and the smell hitting him again: animal in rut.

There was no finesse to what he was doing, but he hoped his eagerness would impress. He heard a thick, muffled sound above him—“Gods, boy, your _mouth_ ”—then Oltos widened his stance, clip-clop as his hooves found purchase on the shining marble. The satyr’s hands curled tight into Timion’s hair and pulled him closer.

Timion’s jaw ached, but he welcomed the satyr’s thrusts. He was dizzy, fingers clawed into the strong-muscled, rough-haired thighs, feeling the tension build. Oltos fucked into his mouth, tugging at Timion’s hair to guide him, first deeper, then pulling him back so only the tip of the satyr’s cock lay between Timion’s bruised lips.

Pre-come coated the lower half of his face, sticky and wet. Gasping for breath, Timion surrendered Oltos’s cock for a moment. Need sang through him, a single note plucked over and over between his aching balls and his clenching hole. The sky was a pitiless blue, the pine trees black. The carved image of Pan in the shrine seemed to leer approvingly.

Gods, he _wanted_. Timion resumed his feast, exploring Oltos’s balls. He teased the taut sac with the point of his tongue, then sucked the lowest-dangling one into his mouth. Rough hair crinkled against his cheeks. He dropped a hand to his lap. Shoving up his tunic, he fisted his cock and returned to Oltos’s straining dick, stiff and glossy from his attentions.

He sucked, head bobbing between the heat and strength of the satyr’s thighs. Oltos twisted his hands through Timion’s hair, fucking his face with driving thrusts. The thick length swelled on Timion’s tongue, making him pant and mewl. Mouth forced wide, Timion moaned his encouragement as Oltos dragged him closer and emptied into him with a roar.

A hot salt tide flooded his throat. Timion swallowed and swallowed until he had to turn away. He felt hot spunk spatter his face and neck, then his tunic. Labouring for breath, trying not to cough, Timion tipped forward onto his hands and knees.

Within a heartbeat, Oltos knelt behind him. Timion felt the back of his tunic flipped up, the hem secured beneath the belt at his waist to expose his bare arse. Rough-haired legs rubbed against the back of his thighs, and the slippery length of hard, hot cock ground against the up-swell of his arse-cheek. Astonished, Timion looked over his shoulder.

A smug grin curved the satyr’s mouth. “I’m a god. I’m always ready.”

“You might be, but I’m not!” Timion wriggled against Oltos’s warm weight, uncertain. He wanted it. Gods, he _needed_ to come, his dick twitching and drooling all over the marble. He needed it more than his next breath, lust pounding in him like the surf on the beach. He wanted Oltos to mount him, ride him to exhaustion, use him all day long—but he hadn’t been breached before, and taking a satyr’s cock would surely hurt.

“You’re untouched?” Oltos lifted an eyebrow.

Embarrassment flaring, Timion tried to save his pride. “I’ve lain with a man. A—a philosopher.”

Oltos snorted with laughter. “A philosopher? And did he bring you to wisdom?”

“I— It was… No.” Timion ducked his head.

A poor venture it had been. Desperate for experience, he’d haunted the agora for a week, working up courage. Finally he’d given himself to the mad old Cynic who spent his days spouting maxims and masturbating. An awkward _eromenos_ to the fumbling _erastes_ , Timion had found himself wrapped in the Cynic’s threadbare cloak on the grass outside the city walls. The philosopher had managed a few feeble thrusts between his greased thighs before spending. As Timion lay there, a thin trickle of seed dampening his skin, the Cynic had sniffed him and said sleepily, “Are you the goat-boy?”

The memory still stung. Timion shrugged it off. “I learned very little.”

“Then the people of your city must be fools.”

Timion said nothing. He couldn’t tell Oltos that his low status rendered him undesirable to the boys and men he was attracted to. He would never relate how Diokles had once fooled him into an assignation at the empty odeion. When he’d gone there, he’d waited a full hour before Diokles had shown up with his friends, and they’d thrown stones and mocked him for his calloused hands, his patched cloak, his soles as hard as horn from walking barefoot. They’d said he smelled of goats no matter how often he bathed, and they called him a sheep-fucker, even though he would never, ever harm one of his beloved animals.

“I am not a sheep,” Oltos said, amusement curling his voice.

Startled—had he really spoken aloud, or could Oltos read his mind?—Timion began to turn around, but the satyr pushed him back down and said, laughing, “I am not a sheep, and _I_ will be the one doing the fucking.”

Excitement coiled in his belly, almost dislodging the fear. “But—”

“Trust me.”

Timion shook his head. His hair was damp with sweat and Oltos’s seed, sticking to his face. He wasn’t sure if he could—if he should—trust the satyr. But that only excited him further. His thighs trembled, his breath starting to pant as he realised he was helpless, unable to stop this mating even if he tried.

Crouched behind him and crooning soothing sounds, Oltos spread Timion’s arse-cheeks. Timion bowed his head to the ground, his breath hitching, shame and anticipation twisting hot and wild inside him. A sob broke from his sore throat as the satyr thrust his face between Timion’s buttocks and slithered his tongue up and down the crack. Wetness ran down his thighs as Oltos ate at him with slobbering, bestial sounds. The satyr’s strong tongue flicked over and around his hole, probing, forcing entry where none had gone before.

Timion keened, his feet drumming, body jerking. A liquid thread hung glistening from his swollen cock. Surely he would explode, spill his seed on the ground in offering to Gaia, but somehow he held back, knowing there was more—more pleasure, more intensity, to come.

And come it did, when Oltos nestled a finger alongside his tongue, licking at it and around it as he continued to feast on Timion’s spread arse. The satyr made his finger slippery-wet, and then slid it inside the flexing muscle of Timion’s hole.

The intrusion made him tighten, then he groaned and relaxed, resistance overcome by the lick and dance of Oltos’s tongue around his sensitive rim. Timion bore down on the finger as it pumped inside him, feeling himself opening up. A second finger stroked in, and a third. Timion struggled as the pain began to burn.

“Good boy. You can take it.”

Oltos’s praise was growled against his sopping-wet arse. The satyr bit at his bum-cheek, immediately soothing the hurt with hot licks of his tongue. Timion was shaking, his focus torn between the fingers—four of them now, steady and slow as they worked in and out—and Oltos’s clever, wicked tongue.

So lost was he in sensation that Timion barely noticed the moment Oltos’s cock took the place of his fingers, sliding in the spit-slipperiness of Timion’s crack. And then, as he bore all of the satyr’s weight, he _did_ notice. Timion turned his head, mouth opening on a silent scream. Pine needles pressed into his cheek. He could smell the earth. Marble glinted. The sky was a blue so pure and dazzling it hurt his eyes.

Heat radiated from Oltos’s body. The satyr laid a hand across the small of Timion’s back, prodded his monstrous cock to the gasping wet pucker, and pushed.

Timion surrendered, a cry starting in his chest and rising to a long, sobbing wail.

Oltos took his hips and pulled him onto the stiff length of his cock.

“Ah, you’re tight.” His voice was hot and rough. “Gods, that’s a sweet ride. You’re made for my cock, boy. Take it all.”

Pleasure swept away the pain on a huge brilliant burst of ecstasy. Timion mashed his face against the ground, his body shaking and trembling. He grabbed at his arse-cheeks to spread them wider, wanting Oltos deeper inside, and then he grabbed at his dick. It was obscenely ripe, and he tugged at himself frantically, his chest heaving, dust in his mouth and the scent of pine and animal rut woven all through him.

“Yes,” Oltos hissed, his huge cock pounding deep and hard. One hand twisted in Timion’s hair, pulling his head up, forcing him to look at the shrine. The satyr’s thrusts quickened, hairy goat thighs smacking human legs, balls heavy with seed slapping at Timion’s sensitised flesh.

Sunlight peeked over the top of the shrine. Timion writhed and tugged and jerked, pinioned by Oltos’s weight, by the plundering thrust of his dick. Release broke over him like a summer storm, hot and wet and uncontrolled. Hips churning, Oltos groaned and fucked him harder; rising, cresting.

A moment of stillness, and then Timion felt the hot gush of seed inside him. He screamed his pleasure, breaking himself apart for his satyr under the watchful gaze of Pan.

*

When he woke, the dew had long since dried on the grass and the sun was edging towards its zenith. Concern for his flock wiped the smile from Timion’s lips and he started up, only to sink back down as his sore, aching body made known its complaints.

“Easy, now.” Oltos was once more sitting on the marble outcrop, the syrinx in his hands. “Your animals are all safe and well. I checked on them myself.”

An echo of pleasure ran through Timion. He sat up, moving cautiously, rubbing at his jaw and glancing down at his stained garment, quiescent cock, and sticky thighs. It seemed pointless to cover himself, and besides, he liked the admiring look Oltos sent him. “You’re still here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” The satyr tilted his head in quizzical fashion. “My task is not yet done.”

“You mean,” Timion’s mind blanked, his dick plumping into greedy fullness, “you want to do it again?”

Oltos laughed, deep and full-throated. “I mean, pretty Timion, you have not yet chosen the gift the great god Pan will grant you.”

“I haven’t?” He knew he sounded daft, but he’d thought… Embarrassment struck like a wave, and Timion cringed at the mistake he’d made. “I thought— I thought…”

“Oh, pet.” The humour vanished from Oltos’s face, and he sprang from the rock, clip-clopping over to Timion to crouch beside him and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Did you think what passed between us was the gift?”

Timion nodded, his throat aching. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Oh, my sweet boy.” Oltos pressed close and ran a tender caress over his dishevelled hair. “Our union was an unexpected but delightful—deliciously, magnificently delightful—bonus. But listen, for I must complete my duty: I am instructed by the great god Pan to discover your dearest wish, and he will grant it. Whatever you most desire, speak it now, and it shall be done.”

Timion looked up at the satyr’s handsome face, at the yellow and black-slitted eyes. A storm raged in his head. Gifts from the gods should always be chosen with care, lest they damage the recipient. His mind whirled with cautionary tales—Kassandra, Tithonos, Midas—and then all was silenced, and he knew his choice.

His determination must have been plain, for Oltos smiled. “Have you chosen?”

“I have.” Timion spoke clearly. “I thank Pan for the offer of a gift, and this is my wish: Oltos, I want to see you again and again, for as many times as it takes to satisfy our desire for one another.”

His answer seemed to take the satyr by surprise. Oltos blinked, his expression one of bemusement. “The great god Pan offers you anything you desire. Wealth, power, revenge, victories at the games, a kingdom of your own… Anything.”

“I have chosen.” Timion lifted a hand to the satyr’s face, cupping his cheek, feeling the soft brush of his goat-ear. “And I choose you.”

“Well. I am not displeased.” Oltos tilted his head, an aura of proud satisfaction around him. He picked up the pan-pipes and placed them in Timion’s hands. “When you want me, play a tune upon the syrinx and I will come to you.”

Timion wet his lips and blew across the reed pipes. His fingers moved over the carved holes. From the syrinx came the same haunting melody he’d heard earlier. It echoed across the hillside, a summoning and a seduction.

“You need not play it now.” Oltos took the instrument from him and set it down. Anticipation stood bright in his face, and his cock was fully engorged, dripping and ready. “Not when you could shape that pretty mouth around something else.”

They laughed together, and Timion bent eagerly to enjoy Pan’s gift.


End file.
